


be subject to each other

by deadlybride



Series: fic for fire relief [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Era, Established Relationship, Kink Exploration, M/M, Photography, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26664787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Dean's interested in what Sam gets out of the pictures.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: fic for fire relief [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926739
Comments: 25
Kudos: 144





	be subject to each other

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for wildfire relief. Personalized fics are available on request; see [this post on my tumblr](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/629171809812643840/fic-for-fire-relief) for more info.
> 
> Written as a sequel to [the archivist](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14297004), but you don't need to read that to understand this.

After Dean gives Sam the camera, taking the pictures feels different. It’s not—he didn’t feel illicit, exactly, before. It was something hidden but it wasn’t dirty. Secret, not shameful, and he’s had a long, hard life of learning the difference between the two. Dean doesn’t get it, but he doesn’t need to. It’s enough that, with an Amazon order, with a brief conversation, Dean’s given permission. Like he does with almost everything that Sam wants. Steadfast, Sam’s thought before, but that wasn’t right, or wasn’t exactly right. His brother. Like steel, sometimes, but most of the time an incredible, malleable gold.

They’re alone in the bunker, ninety percent of the time. Sam takes to leaving his camera in random places because there’s a chance he’ll get a good shot, no matter where they are. The shower room. The gym. In the library he leaves it on the shelf with the Abyssinian mystics, and on a rare day that Dean gets up earlier than him, Sam shuffles out of the hall hoping for coffee, and finds his brother ruffle-haired, in his soft grey robe, cupping a mug to his chest and reading a book in the ancient leather armchair, and it’s so—it’s so—that Sam slips in his socks over to the shelf and goes to one knee, taking the picture like a voyeur over the table, past the dim glow of the lamp, so he catches Dean’s bent head, the gleam of his cheekbone with the blackish bruise marring it, and of course the shutter is loud so Dean looks up, surprised, but Sam got the picture either way. Dean blinks at him, clearly not quite awake himself, and the book disappears out of sight behind the arm of the chair, but then Dean sighs, shakes his head. “Morning, creeper,” he says, rough, and lifts his face, so that Sam’s allowed both the picture and the chapped sour coffee-flavor of a kiss, which he takes leaning over, his thumb on Dean’s jaw, and as a bonus he gets a tiny smile, against his mouth, before Dean pushes his empty mug into Sam’s chest and says, “Refill,” and then the day starts, like it always does.

They hunt. The camera stays home. When they come back he or Dean will have bruises, cuts. Dean has to stitch up a four-inch gash on his tricep that pulls every time he does—anything, and Dean’s quiet until he sees that it’s healing and then keeps asking him to get things off of tall shelves, just to fuck with him. Dean dislocates his tricky shoulder, again, and Sam gets in back in place with Dean’s forehead pressed against the table and a stream of curses spilling toward the floor, and when he helps Dean take his shirt off that night there’s a constellation of dark purple-black around the stiff joint where the vampire grabbed him and yanked, and Sam smooths his hand over it, knowing how sore it’d be. “Ow,” Dean says, but just stands there, his shoulders moving gently with his breath, and Sam bites his tongue. Dean tips his head, looks at him. A little pause, then: “Dude, you know you want to,” and Sam leaves the room, and Dean’s still standing there with his head tipped onto the opposite shoulder, his eyes closed and tired, when Sam comes back with the camera, and Sam takes four shots from different angles, mostly of the shoulder but with Dean’s shuttered eyelashes always in frame, and when he’s done he puts the camera down on his desk and draws Dean down, to bed, and they sleep chest-to-back, Sam’s lips at Dean’s hairline, their hands not tangled but—touching.

They have sex just as much as they always did, which is to say—frequently, but not constantly. They have work to do, after all. Dean wants to talk about it more, now. He has questions.

At breakfast, Dean eating something frosted and Sam actually enjoying his oatmeal, regardless of how Dean mocks him for being Wilford Brimley: “So,” he says, eyebrows wagging, and Sam sighs and sprinkles chopped almonds into his bowl, stirring them in. “Like—what position is best?”

“Dude,” Sam says. Jesus, it's—eight in the morning.

Dean shrugs a shoulder, shovels in cereal. “Shouldn’t do it if you can’t talk about it,” he says, garbled through a mouthful of flake-shards and milk, and Sam stares at him and then looks away before his libido is actually assassinated. “C'mon. What gets Sammy going?”

“Anything,” Sam says. Dean rolls his eyes and Sam says, “Seriously. I mean, it's—all good.”

It is. Dean should know that, by now. They fuck missionary, doggy, on their sides with Dean scooped up against his chest, in dumb porno positions that Dean wants to try because he’s seen them on the internet—and those aren’t great because they’re more about looking good than feeling good, but it’s still sex. They don’t switch often, but when they do Sam knows that Dean prefers to take him from behind, and that’s great, too, Dean blanketing his back and kissing his shoulders, going slow, making it good for him. He shifts, on the stool, looks down at his oatmeal. Takes a bite and ignores how his cheeks are starting to feel hot.

“Okay,” Dean says, after a few seconds. He sounds a little delighted. Sam sighs, and gets up for more orange juice. “But like—okay, so we’re sexperts. Awesome. But what about for your pictures?” Sam pauses, frowning over from the fridge, and Dean gestures broadly at himself, show-offy as Vanna White. “Dude, not like you haven’t thought about it. What angles are best?”

Sam closes the fridge door, leans against it with the box of orange juice held in both hands. He actually hasn’t thought about it. Not specifically. It’s just that sometimes they’re in bed—or he’s joined Dean in the tub—or bent Dean over the library table—and he has his camera close by, and he sees a little moment that he just— _wants_ —and since Dean will let him have them, he takes them, and it’s not some big plan.

He’s been silent too long. Dean’s looking at him, but less lascivious and more thoughtful, now. “Put it another way,” he says, leaning on his elbow on the table. “Which ones do you go back and look at most?”

Dean’s face. That’s always the answer. Dean’s face, and the shape of his bones picked out in the often-harsh light in here, and his eyelashes and lips and the slight brokenness of his nose, and the delicate shell of his ear, and the way his freckles spatter his skin, and that little scar, just by his mouth, that somehow has never gone away no matter how many times an angel has healed him. Sam licks his lips, flipping through his mental stockpile. “When you’re on your back,” he says, and looks across the kitchen at Dean. “Position doesn’t really—I mean, if I'm—on top, it’s easier to use the camera. But I—I like it when you’re on your back so you’re not really moving, or thinking about how to move, and you’re just—uh, taking it.”

One in particular: Dean with his hands clenched hard around Sam’s headboard, his knees spread wide and high, his body straining, arched. Sam had been on his knees, Dean’s ass nestled sweet up against his hips, and he’d been barely moving, churning his dick inside more than thrusting, and it had been driving Dean nuts, and he’d been cursing at Sam, telling him to get a move on, and Sam had stopped completely and reached for the camera and Dean had breathed out _fuck_ and held on and held still and turned his face away, his mouth open and panting, and it was—perfect. Spread, like that, and open. Sam looks at it sometimes on his laptop, his chin in his hand, just taking in details. If all his pictures were that good, he’d be a lucky, lucky man.

Dean’s ears are pink, across the kitchen. “Taking it, huh,” he says, and Sam says, “You asked.”

“Yeah, I did,” Dean says, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and turns back to his cereal, and then it’s done, for that day.

Sam doesn’t actually know that much about photography, either theory or practice. He just pins down moments and that’s all he really thinks about. He knows, though, mostly from watching movies, that great photographers want their subjects to _not_ be thinking about the camera—to just be themselves, and let themselves be captured without thinking about how they look.

Dean starts thinking about it. He’s kind of a show-off, it’s not really a surprise. He rolls Sam onto his back in bed and gets Sam’s dick inside him, sheathing it slow, and then settles there on his knees while Sam’s brain is still trying to recover from the slick heat. He bites his lips, his hips shifting, and then smiles, his face flushed. “How’s this?” he says, and Sam blinks at him and only then gets it, and Sam laughs, because of course. He reaches over to the side table and Dean looks right into the lens, and that picture’s good just because it’s Dean in a good mood, his eyes crinkled with a smile, but it’s different, somehow. When Dean’s asking for the photo, versus when Sam just—needs one.

In Dean’s bed, after a lazy round when Sam didn’t reach for the camera at all, Dean kisses his collarbone and then says, thoughtful again, “Taking it.”

It’s been weeks. Sam doesn’t make the connection to the conversation until Dean lifts up on his elbow, looking down at Sam’s face. “What?” Sam says, and then remembers, and even if they’ve just been inside each other and they’re covered in each other’s cooling sweat, he feels his cheeks heat. “Oh.”

Dean snorts. His fingers are messing with Sam’s chest hair, pulling it lightly and then smoothing it down. “So, is it… Like, do you want me tied up, or something?” He’s watching Sam’s face, looking for reactions. “We’ve got that rope.”

Jesus. Sam swallows, picturing that. It’d be… that’d be… “Do you want to get tied up?” he says, instead.

Dean’s eyes narrow, just a tad. He shifts, sits up more fully with his hip tucked against Sam’s, keeping Sam down with a hand on his chest. “All right, not that I guess,” he says. Almost to himself, like he’s working something out. He bites the corner of his mouth. “And you don’t want me helpless.”

Odd note in his voice. Sam reaches over and grips his hip, and Dean keeps watching his face, thinking. “You look like you’re doing math problems,” Sam says, trying to break whatever weirdness is here, and Dean blinks and then rolls his eyes, and goes to the sink in the corner to wet a rag.

“Yeah, friggin’ Isaac Newton, that’s me,” Dean says, and when they’re both cleaned up he crawls back into bed and settles at Sam’s back, this time, and Sam relaxes, the weight and warmth of his brother all around him, like being a kid again, like a hug.

A hunt. A ghost on a farm, simple enough. Dean gets thrown through a half-rotted barn wall and Sam can’t breathe for a few minutes until he’s burned up the bones, wasted the spirit, sprinted across the field to find Dean still, his face white in the moonlight, and he drops to his knees and grabs Dean’s shoulders and it’s only then that Dean coughs, dragging in mold-dust air, raggedly says, “I hate farmers,” and Sam laughs breathless and says, “Yeah, yeah, they’re the worst,” and drags him upright and holds him, shuddery, cupping the back of Dean’s head and thinking, god, god.

Neither of them are actually hurt that bad. They drive back through the night and Dean bitches about his torn-up jacket, and says that he’s taking a shower the instant they get back to the bunker. Sam looks out the window at the black fields passing by, his knuckles against his mouth, and his very, very good visual memory keeps playing back Dean’s body among the broken boards, the way his eyes had looked dark and hollow.

They get back to the bunker. Dean parks in the garage, and looks at Sam, and says, “Yeah, you’re filthy too, come on,” and so Sam follows Dean to the shower, and they clean up side by side, the bathroom filling up with steam from the hot water, everything warm and clean and bright. Dean’s got red marks all over his back that are going to turn into bruises. Sam’s got grave-dirt under his nails that he scrubs at until his fingers are abraded, but finally not black. He stands there, under the spray, arms wrapped around himself to stretch his back, and the thing is that he actually does like hunting, he loves the sensation that they’re making a difference in the world, but sometimes—sometimes it’s just—

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean says, and the water turns off. Sam opens his eyes and Dean’s holding out a towel. It's—what, three in the morning. Sam’s a little foggy, maybe.

They end up in Sam’s room. Sam stands inside the doorway and thinks about putting on pajamas and thinks it’s probably too much effort. Dean goes around him, turns on the lamps at the bedside and at the desk, and when the room’s full of dim golden light, Dean takes off his towel, and while Sam’s blinking at that Dean comes over to him and takes off Sam’s towel, too, and folds it in a few quick turns and drops it to the concrete floor, and then goes to his knees on it, right in front of Sam, looking up at him.

Sam says, “Dean.”

“Just go with it,” Dean says. Like Sam wouldn’t.

It’s almost—workmanlike, at first. Practical. Sam’s not hard and so it’s easy for Dean to suck his dick in all the way, wetting it to the base in long practiced strokes of his soft hot mouth, dragging back to the head and playing his tongue there under the crown. Not teasing but focused, making Sam rise for it. Sam spreads his legs just a little, rests a hand on Dean’s shoulder, and sinks into it, just feeling. He is rising, chubbing up inevitably, because Dean’s good at this, knows his body, knows him. Callused fingers on his nuts, holding them easy; the firm pressure of his tongue on the underside, gliding. It's—god, good, it’s really good, comforting as it makes his brain just focus on one thing. Dean’s mouth, the plush of his lips, the easy suction on the way up, the wet give on the way back down. Sam pets through his hair, tips his head down to watch. Dean’s eyes are half-closed but Sam still gets other details—the freckles on his cheeks, on his bare shoulders. His pinked-up face, his red ears, and Sam runs his fingers over the hot shell of one and then down to the bolt of Dean’s jaw, feeling how it flexes, working. Dean draws up to the head and his mouth—god, it’s pretty. Split and red, Sam’s dick hard and fat and dark, breaking him open, and he does glance up at Sam then, while he licks the slit, and the sight and the feel together almost buckle Sam’s knees. He slips his fingers down Dean’s jaw to his chin, wet with spilled spit, and then up to the swell of his bottom lip, and Dean closes his eyes and pushes back down, slow, and Sam feels the plush give of it, the way he tightens his lips at the base and pulls back up, leaving slick behind, and it's—fuck, it’s so good, and Sam—

“Can I,” he says, and Dean pulls off for a second, gasping, and looks up at him.

“Don’t ask,” he says—again, insane—god, Sam’s brother—and Sam grips his jaw and Dean tilts for him and lets Sam drive inside. Not too deep, not hurting, but setting the pace, working his hips. Oh, it feels—right, good, easy. Just to give himself up to the pleasure of—fucking, of chasing it, knowing that Dean wants him to, that it’s good. Dean kneels up, holds Sam’s hips with his thumbs rubbing over the bone, and Sam shifts his grip to the sides of Dean’s head and goes fast, shoving in and in, Dean’s tongue spread flat for him and the ring of his lips just tight enough, and it's—fuck, it’s getting him there, faster than he thought it would, his balls clutching up, his gut feeling like a coiling, twisted-tight spring.

Dean’s eyes sweep up at him and that’s it—that's—"I'm—" Sam says, and Dean—fuck, pulls _off_ , using his grip on Sam’s hips to get the leverage, and Sam gasps at the abrupt cold air but Dean’s already jerking his dick, hard and fast through the slick, cupping his balls and pressing his fingers into Sam’s taint, and he licks under the head and keeps looking at Sam’s face and Sam was already a second from it and starts coming, and Dean—what the fuck—holds Sam’s dick right up against his closed lips and the first spurt hits him there, and then on his cheek, and then Dean closes his eyes and rubs Sam’s flexing furious dick against his cheekbone and it’s just—everywhere, creaming him everywhere, Sam’s balls unloading and just covering him, covering him.

Sam’s thighs are shaking, when it’s done. “Jesus christ,” he says, weak, and tips up Dean’s face. He’s keeping his eyes closed, now, but none of it got in his eyelashes—but it’s all over the right side of his face, his mouth, dripping white on his cheekbone.

Dean lets his dick go. His mouth looks bruised. He tips his head, keeping the come-laced side tilted up, and says, softly, “Sam.”

God. Sam stares at him. He reaches over to the desk, and gets the camera. A click and there’s Dean’s face, filling up the screen. Like a claim’s been staked. He takes one, standing there just above Dean, the exact pose Dean’s holding for him—the clean side hidden, the come thick and held on his cheek—and then says, “Stay,” and goes to his knees, too, and takes a picture at Dean’s eye-level, so that the light’s gleaming over the wet, and there’s the contrast. Dean’s half-hard, his nipples tight, and Sam would take a picture of that, too, but it’s more important then to get the camera back safely to the desk and then gather up Dean’s jaw and kiss him, tasting it, trying to put in even an ounce, even a moment, of how—grateful he is. How much it means. Dean loses the stillness in a second and pushes in close, wrapping his arms around Sam’s neck and fucking his tongue in so Sam can taste himself, all salt and bitter. Sam drags a thumb across Dean’s cheek, smearing himself, and thinks—maybe—and yeah, when he pushes the gob of wet between their mouths Dean licks it up and then bites his lip hard enough to hurt.

“You're—” Sam says, holding Dean’s jaw, and can’t find the words.

“Sticky, is what I am,” Dean says, a little raspy—and oh, Sam must have gone deeper than he meant—but even if he feels bad he laughs, a little nuts-feeling, and pulls back to find Dean wiping his face, his nose wrinkled.

“Sorry,” Sam says, but he’s not. “That was all you.”

Dean grimaces for a second, but then shrugs, and licks his lips, and touches Sam’s chest with his cleaner hand. “Well,” Dean says, “sometimes we suffer for genius. Bet you’ll make it up to me.”

Sam thinks there’s no possible way he can ever pay back everything that he’s been given. “Bet I can,” he says, instead. Dean’s mouth curves, and he leans in easy, and he takes a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/630338818001797120/in-support-of-wildfire-relief-padacklestm) \-- reblogs help more people see the relief campaign, so it's appreciated if you have a tumblr.
> 
> Would appreciate any thoughts you have.


End file.
